


My Sword Is A Song

by enigmaticblue



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorne faces the apocalypse the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sword Is A Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smercy/gifts).



It had taken months to get this place together, what with the _demon apocalypse_ and all. But Lorne had known that once he had opened his own place again, once he was busy pouring drinks and singing, and getting other demons to sing—humans were in short supply these days—that empty space inside of him would fill right up.

 

Looking back on it, Lorne couldn’t help but wonder where exactly he’d taken a wrong turn. No matter how loudly he belted out a good show tune, all he heard were the lyrics and the melody, with no deeper insights. He couldn’t read his own soul, no matter how much he might have liked to.

 

Still, what he had now was good, and it felt right. The little bar lacked the warmth of Caritas, in any of its incarnations, but it offered a shelter from the hell just outside the doors, and Lorne had called in a few favors.

 

Guns weren’t welcome, and weren’t tolerated. Other weapons could be reclaimed at the end of the night, but not guns.

 

“Lorne.” Wesley’s smooth baritone greeted him as he stepped into the crowded interior. “How are you?”

 

“The same as usual. You going to sing for me tonight, sugar?”

 

Wesley shook his head, his expression regretful, maybe a bit wistful. “No, not tonight.”

 

They had the same conversation every time Wesley came by, every time he slipped his leash for a few hours. Lorne sometimes wondered if he’d face the same fate when he died—if the contract he’d signed with Wolfram &amp; Hart would hold him in Los Angeles, alive but unable to fully live.

 

But if it held him here, like this, that might be all right.

 

“The usual?” Lorne asked, sensing the brittleness hidden behind Wesley’s calm surface.

 

He nodded shortly. “Have you seen Angel or Spike lately?”

 

“No more than usual,” Lorne replied, which was never. He’d never said it out loud, but Lorne didn’t think he could welcome Angel into the club, not after he’d made that request, not after Lorne had carried it out. And trouble followed Spike like a shadow, which was precisely what Lorne _didn’t_ need.

 

Wesley nodded and pointedly didn’t ask after Gunn or Illyria. Lorne knew that Gunn had been trapped at Wolfram &amp; Hart just as surely as Wesley had, and Illyria—well, she’d always marched to the beat of her own drummer.

 

Lorne suspected that Wesley saw her more often than he let on, but that wasn’t any of his business, not when the man refused any help, other than a glass of bourbon.

 

Hopeless, Lorne thought. The man was hopeless in more ways than one.

 

Lorne moved through the crowd, nudging those who might need a little encouragement to sing karaoke, making private appointments for a little later in the evening. The world might be ending, but demons still wanted their souls read, to be pointed towards the right path.

 

And Lorne was happy to help.

 

He took the stage himself during a break, singing “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You,” because he was feeling a bit nostalgic. Lorne believed in fitting the music to the mood.

 

After that, he sang “It’s Not Easy Being Green” because it amused him, and it always got a laugh. There was precious little laughter these days.

 

Wesley slipped out the door just as Lorne finished the second song, and Lorne shook his head as he handed off the mic to the Froctor demon taking the stage.

 

Lorne wished he could help, but he’d gone back to what he did best—singing and listening to other people sing, putting the occasional bug in someone’s ear.

 

He took a sip of his Sea Breeze—and gave silent thanks for his supplier—forcing himself to pay attention to the Froctor murdering Mariah Carey. Lorne winced at the glimpse of the Froctor’s destiny; Lorne would have to talk to him about staying in Los Angeles.

 

Finishing off his drink, Lorne approached the Froctor as he left the stage. “You might want to think about postponing that vacation. Leaving L.A. isn’t going to do you any favors.”

 

The Froctor growled. “But my mom—”

 

“Trust me, sweet cheeks,” Lorne replied. “I’m telling you this for your own good. Leave or don’t leave, but L.A. happens to be safer for you at the moment.”

 

He left the Froctor muttering, and Lorne knew that his advice would be ignored; it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

 

Lorne’s shoes—white leather, and one of the few decent pairs he’d kept after Los Angeles descended into hell—stuck to the floor a bit. He made a mental note to speak with the helper demon he employed for cleaning purposes. The demon had been falling down on the job lately.

 

One of the mismatched barstools was open, and Lorne slid onto it, leaning back against the scarred wooden bar to listen to the next song. The Grappler demon had a nice bass voice, but he was singing Coldplay, which never translated well.

 

A commotion by the door grabbed Lorne’s attention, and he heaved a sigh when he saw Angel walk in, Spike on his heels. “Two for the price of one,” Lorne mumbled, pushing off of his stool. “Angel-cakes, what are you doing here?”

 

“I heard you were open for business,” Angel replied, forcing a smile. “Thought this might be a good place for getting information.”

 

Lorne frowned. “How about you take off, and I’ll pass along the information later?”

 

“That’s kind of a cold welcome,” Spike remarked. “Can’t we even get a drink?”

 

“Spike, honey, your money is no good here, and I mean that.” Lorne’s eyes narrowed. “I did what you asked of me Angel, and I’m done. This is my place. Do you remember what happened to Caritas?”

 

Lorne didn’t bother tempering his anger. He’d been waiting for this opportunity, and kicking Angel out was going to bring him a great deal of pleasure.

 

“Lorne—” Angel began.

 

“No.” Lorne shook his head. “This is a peaceful establishment.”

 

Spike half-turned to face the door. “You sure about that?”

 

Lorne let out a rather pithy Pylean curse he’d learned from his mother when he saw two demons enter that he knew still worked for the Senior Partners. Outside the four walls of his little karaoke bar, there was a power play going on. Everyone with an ounce of ambition wanted to rule this little corner of hell, and Spike and Angel were still considered key players.

 

“I knew it. Heroes are never without their villains, which is why you need to leave. Out the back,” he ordered.

 

“But what about—”

 

“I’ll handle it,” Lorne snapped. “But I can’t have you two causing chaos and ruin. Out the back.”

 

Lorne moved forward to greet his new guests. “How nice to see you! First time here? Have a round on the house.”

 

“Where are they?” The leader of the pack’s brusque, businesslike tone mirrored the black skirt suit she wore. Under other circumstances, Lorne would have taken her for an attorney, out for a drink and a night on the town, and he would have complimented her purple, stiletto Jimmy Choos.

 

But this was L.A., and most of the humans were gone, while the few remaining had gone underground in a strange role reversal. This was hell now, and humans didn’t belong here, unless they were serving something greater than themselves.

 

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Lorne replying, playing innocent to buy a little time. Maybe he didn’t want Spike and Angel in his bar, but he didn’t want them dead either.

 

“Don’t be coy,” she snapped. “Angel and Spike—the vampires. Where are they?”

 

“They’re gone, and this is neutral ground,” Lorne replied. “But have a drink on me.”

 

“Through the back.” She looked over her shoulder to the Ryak demons behind her. “We’ll tear the place apart, then follow them. I won’t let the trail go cold again.”

 

Lorne allowed his irritation to rise up and overwhelm him. He’d learned a valuable lesson in how to use his emotions as a weapon at Wolfram and Hart, and he didn’t have a problem using that now.

 

So, when he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and sang, it wasn’t just the high note that wowed the crowd.

 

Lorne purposely avoided using a note that would break glass—although he _could_ do so, if he put his mind to it. Instead, he focused everything on knocking ‘em dead, focusing on those who wanted to do violence.

 

The woman in the suit went down, clutching at her ears, the Ryak demons followed soon thereafter—and the whole room fell silent to watch Lorne do what he did best.

 

When Angel and Spike’s pursuers lay on the floor—dead or unconscious, Lorne didn’t really care which—he motioned to his helper demons to clear the floor. “All right, folks,” he called out cheerfully. “Let’s get the fun train back on track!”

 

There was a split second’s pause, and then the music started back up, the Grappler demon found his place again—Lorne had to admire the professionalism—and Lorne reclaimed his bar stool.

 

“Way to go, boss,” the bartender murmured, passing Lorne another Sea Breeze. “That was some show.”

 

Lorne shrugged off the praise. He was just protecting his own, and he _missed_ the days when he didn’t have to worry about violence inside the walls of his bar, when he didn’t have to kill anyone just to survive.

 

Still, the Senior Partners would hesitate before they sent anyone else into Lorne’s place, and Lorne might enjoy another brief period of peace.

 

“A demon has to do, what a demon has to do,” Lorne finally said, and rose as the Grappler left the stage.

 

He had a bar to run and destinies to read. And maybe later, he’d sing another song.


End file.
